On the Other Hand
by ilexx
Summary: Season 5. HotJ 2, during their 'war-conference'. Because I've always wanted to try a story with Dylan musing on Beka the way Philip Marlowe muses on the 'blonde du jour'.


I don't own any of the characters, I don't own the scene, I don't own the quotes – and sadly, I do not possess any of the Chandler-sparkle, either. But I've always wanted to try something like an inner monologue of Dylan's on Beka, 'Philip Marlowe-style', simply because I've always thought that they were the only sci-fi characters I ever came across, who would have felt just as much at home in any Chandler- or Hammett-story: a little dark and broken, a little desperate and yet very, very cool.

**On the Other Hand.**

They say when you're about to die, you see your whole life pass in your mind like a fast forwarded film. He's been there often enough to know that it's true. Only, this time it's not happening this way. It's not **all **of his life that he sees rushing by. Only his life with her. This one, though… yeah, this one's pretty complete.

He can't concentrate. They're about to decide whether or not they will make a last stand right here and now. He's about to ask. And they're about to tell him, each and every one of them. Yet he can't concentrate. He knows that he needs to find the right words for the pep talk, the right words for each one; but all he can think about are the right words for **her**. Because he knows that everything that will happen henceforth, will depend on her. At least, it will for him. This time he won't let another Arkology come about, no matter what. If she stands by him, he'll stand tall and fight. If not… If not, he'll walk away, but **with **her this time, wherever she wants to go. And then, for the rest of his life, he will hate himself for having done so, and just hope to hell that this rest will be as brief as possible, and… And. And even that is better than what happened the last time.

They come in, one by one. He sits with his back to the doors, as if trying to postpone acknowledging them all for as long as possible. That's true to some extent, but not quite. More true is the fact that he is afraid: of seeing her, of what her face, her eyes will tell him. Most of all, though, he is afraid of **not** seeing her. Afraid that she won't come at all, that she knows what he is about to ask of them – and that she's made up her mind already, that the answer is 'no', that she's already gone.

She hasn't though. With her finally in the room – the last one to come, but there nonetheless, which is all that matters – he thinks about how foolish he has been to think she might not come. Of course she came, she wouldn't leave without giving him a chance to say what he has to say – and receive a piece… a **good **piece of her mind in return.

She walks in behind him and even before he sees her, he knows that she's there. Knows it because the atmosphere in the room has changed imperceptibly, as has the scent. It now smells of that vague, discreet, yet unmistakable 'Beka'-flavor, something he never could really put a name to, but that always reminds him of something… At which point in his train of thought, he suddenly knows: she smells the way Tarn-Vedra's ocean used to look on a starry night.

She walks past him. Her stride's the same as always, graceful on those long legs, with long thighs, long calves and slim ankles that could provide enough melodic line for a sonata. He's always loved her walk, the way she carries herself with a certain something that you just don't get to see much in the corridors of a warship.

At the moment when she passes him, he tries to rise – like a reflex – but her hand lightly presses down on his shoulder.

"Please, Dylan. Don't get up," she says in a soft voice that sounds to his ears exactly like the stuff they use to line out summer clouds with.

And so he doesn't, just nods.

"Hey, Beka!" he then says.

"Hey," she answers, moving on to a seat at the other end of the table – and his heart skips a beat. Bad sign? Either way, it seems as if she tries to distance herself from him as much as possible, and to his ears it seems as if her voice has changed its tone too, becoming cooler, colder, letting her slide somehow even further away from him.

When she sits down, he finally gets his first good look at that most familiar face of them all. She looks as always, slim and delicate, but at the same time remarkably… durable. Blonde and challenging enough to make a Wayist monk want to kick a hole in a monastery door, but with features that are basically so nicely put together that one can't help but like her. A face handsome enough, but not in a way that makes you think you should be armed whenever you take her out to Cavanaugh's. A face always seeming ready to smile – a smile that's only tentative at first, but looks as if it could be persuaded to become nice. With eyes set wide, and with a lot of space to think between them, and a gaze in them that's playful, tempting, eager and confident, but deep, deep down also a tad uncertain, the gaze of a young cat taking possession of new territory – where they don't care much for cats. Not cute, though. She's too tall and too strong to be cute.

They're all there. And he says something to them. In his own ears it sounds false. The others don't seem to notice, but he knows she does. She's always been able to detect the faintest hint of falsetto in everyone of them, particularly in him though. Small wonder, he bets that when the Perseid Planetary Philharmonic play a dodecaphonic symphony, she can tell you which one of the five high viols came in a quarter of a beat too late. So when she doesn't answer, he is not surprised.

Harper answers instead. Then Rommie. Then Doyle. He still can't concentrate properly, much as he tries. And waits, avoiding so much as a glance towards her. But when she cuts in on Doyle, he no longer can help himself and turns his gaze around and looks at her, sees her pausing, thinking. It's nice to watch her think. She lifts her eyes an inch, catching him staring at her. And suddenly he no longer is in that room full of people, on the eve of battle, in a conference with his senior staff, but someplace else. Of course he has no idea where that place might be. Wherever it is, though: he's holding his breath.

Their eyes lock and her look is… not hard, but still as if she's got no more questions, has heard all the answers and remembers the ones she really can use – on him. She holds his gaze, explaining, he can't say for how long. Only that it sounds… refusing. Why, he cannot say. Time passes. He seems quite unable to say anything, so it's no surprise that he can't say how much time, either. He doesn't have a chron. Besides: it doesn't matter. There's never been a chron made for that kind of time.

He can't concentrate. He merely can form one single thought: he's gonna lose her. Again. He drops his gaze, staring at his fingers and stopping to breathe. It seems as if they all stop breathing. However, none of the others seem too concerned by that. And why should they? After all, three don't breathe anyway, and Harper has already had his say. Dylan's the only one likely to choke to death on it. And not even he pays attention to that. None of the people in the room pays any attention to the amazing fact that no-one breathes anymore – and that one of them one is dying.

"On the other hand."

His head yanks up. All of a sudden, her voice changes in his ears, seems like the music heard faintly on the edge of a sound. What she says now… That's not what he's expected. Not what he's expected at all. In fact, it is almost mind-staggeringly different. And he thought he knew. Her decision. Her thoughts. Her. Turns out, he doesn't have a clue, which is mighty strange. After all, he's done a lot of research, a great deal of homework on her, right? After all, he's always doing his homework – particularly on tall blondes. And most of all on tall blondes named Beka. And yet…

And yet, he had been thinking that she was withdrawing, refusing, saying her goodbyes. And that he was dying already, because… What did she once tell him? That saying goodbye is always a bit like dying, that on Earth the French used to have a phrase for it… Which is very likely, after all the bastards used to have a phrase for everything – and be right about it… His thoughts are rambling in his head… And he can concentrate even less, which is bad, 'cause he should. Because what she says now is mattering a great deal, is meaningful and… somehow full of commas – like a heavy novel. And thoroughly unimportant because he's heard the only thing he really wanted to hear: she stands by him.

He stares at her in wonder, his gaze enveloping her like a huge, warm blanket, his eyes telling her that from where he sits, she looks like a dream come true and a lot of class – and definitely like something made up to be seen from a hell of a lot closer.

At the end of it all, unlike the last time, when she gave him a look which ought to have stuck at least four inches out of his chest, she gives him a grin he can feel in his hip pockets.

The rest of it is even more of a blur. Finally, with all of them agreeing to stand and fight, he issues his orders: to Harper, Rommie, Doyle… He feels her eyes on him. Asking. Wondering. _And me? What do you want from me? Tell me what you want, Dylan…_

He sighs.

_How about_ _a drink, a life insurance, a home, a nap, and_ _a long vacation_, he's about to mutter. But then he sees her face and thinks: _What the hell? I've got all I want_; and so he grins into her eyes.

"Beka – you, I want with _me _in Command."


End file.
